Gwen Perkins's Blog, page 6

TIL #2: Thomas Edison’s To-Do List, Octavia Butler, & the Creepiest Drum Ever Made

I don’t know if this week’s list is actually so much things I like as it is things that fascinate me. (Really this feature should be called “Random Things That I Saw on the Internet This Week” but it’s a bit late now.) My time is short today so I’ll keep this brief as well.

#1: Thomas Edison’s To-Do List

I know that we’ve all had those days where our To-Do lists seemed insurmountable. I was feeling that way this weekend…until I saw Thomas Edison’s.

The lists have everything from “ink for the blind” to tons of mysterious machines. It’s a bit like glimpsing into the thoughts of a mad scientist. I’m sure the Oatmeal would agree.

#2: Octavia Butler fanvid

The Parable series by Octavia Butler is one of my favorite works by any artist ever. It speaks to me in ways that few other books have. It could be my personal–and strong–connection to that story but when I saw this video, it brought a tear to my eye.

#3: A Drum made out of human skulls

As an author who writes novels named after artifacts, I’m always keeping my eyes open for new ones. I uncovered this ritual pellet drum from Tibet in the digital collections of the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. (Man, do they have some great objects!)

Whenever I find myself looking at an artifact like this, it brings to me all kinds of questions. Why did they use human material in the making of the drum? How was it obtained? For what rituals was it used? Through what hands did this drum pass? What about the artifact are we misinterpreting simply because of its age and provenance?

A lot of interesting questions. I may have to do some further research later on.

Excerpt: Dissolve

Today, we bring you the first chapter from Dissolve by Andrea Heltsley!

I felt a lurch in my stomach as the room spun and the night caught up to me. I didn’t even have the chance to excuse myself from the tall dark and handsome I had been dancing with all night. I drank too much too fast. All the hangover remedies in the world weren’t going to be able to fix this blunder.

The nightclub lights were swirling into melted colors and the music was turning from techno to smashing beats inside my head. Slowing to steady my breath, I bit back the metallic taste and rushed out of the crowd and into the bathroom.

It wasn’t long before I heard the push of the door and the clack of heels against the bathroom tiles. They were moving steadily towards me and I was about to tell the intruder to go away when a familiar voice spoke up.

“Cora, honey, is everything okay?” Nessa asked as she leaned against the cool steel of the stall.

“I’m fine. Just give me a few minutes,” I slurred as I embraced the toilet for another round.

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Ok, I might not feel the greatest right now,” I admitted.

“Oh Cora, that royally sucks. I didn’t think you even drank that much.”

“Apparently I did. I am on the floor in a dirty public restroom and all I can think about is heaving, yuck,” I said.

“I will be right back, I have an idea,” Nessa replied before swinging the door open and stepping away.

I heard a sudden pulse of music then shuddered. It was all I could do to fight back the urge to heave as I sat there. It wasn’t long before Nessa returned and tapped on the metallic stall.

“I brought you some club soda to settle your stomach,” Nessa said, handing me the club soda underneath the stall.

“Thanks,” I murmured.

“Come out when you are ready and we will head home,” she said.

Then I heard the fading clack of her heels and the door swinging shut behind her. Taking a calming breath to steady myself, I sipped the bubbly liquid slowly. Soon I was able to finish the cup she left me and I sighed in relief as my stomach began to settle.

Cautiously, I removed myself from the disgusting public toilet and shivered in revulsion. I never get this drunk. I didn’t even feel like I drank that much, but apparently I did. Public toilets are about as awful as you can get. I straightened out my wrinkled red strapless dress and unsteadily managed to make it to out of the stall and towards the sink.

I tried to ignore the hammering in my head as I rinsed off my face in the sink. My blonde hair was now stringy and I tucked it behind my ears. I no longer cared about the state of my makeup or my hair. I just wanted to get the hell out of here and go home. Pushing the bathroom door open and into the club, I winced. The pounding of the music rattled through me and I thought about being sick all over again. Each thrum of the base sent a crackling through my head and I tried not to faint in the flashing lights of the club.

Nessa was quick to find me and I was relieved for something going right tonight. Her brown hair was down, flowing all around her face. She looked incredibly sexy tonight in her black mini dress and newly bronzed skin. I would be envious if it was anyone but Nessa. Her brown eyes met my blue ones and she sighed.

“Oh Cora, let’s get you out of here,” she said with a look of concern.

I simply nodded in agreement and followed Nessa out through the crowd of the throbbing and swelling of the night club and into the warm summer night. I swayed on my feet, unsteady. Nessa wrapped her arms around me to steady my shaking body. I was grateful and leaned into her embrace.

“You look so pitiful, I just want to hug you and tell you everything will be okay,” Nessa said.

“Thanks I think,” I replied.

With her free hand, Nessa hailed a cab. Once successful, she steered me to the curb and I tried not to trip on my red peep toes. She placed me in the cab before joining me and closed the door behind her. I let out a sigh of relief just to be able to get off my feet. Safely in the cab, I pulled my shoes off and lay them next to me in a jumble. I sunk into my best friend as I floated in and out of consciousness the whole way home.

I startled as we slowed and came to a complete stop. My blue eyes that had now become a brilliant hue were watering and I swiped at them with my index fingers. Nessa was kind enough to pay the cab fare before letting me out, barefoot and holding my shoes.

“Are you sure you are going to be okay?” she asked, giving me a gentle hug.

“Nothing I can’t fix with some aspirin and lots of sleep,” I replied.

“Do you need help into the house?” she asked as she tilted her head towards my brownstone settled at the end of Main Street.

“No, I will manage. Thanks for everything. Sorry I got so drunk.”

“It’s okay, call me tomorrow. Oh and tell Tom I said hi,” she told me.

“I will, goodnight,” I said. Nessa shut the cab’s door and soon all I saw was the vague glow of the fading tail lights. I turned and walked up the stairs, trying not to injure my bare feet on the concrete. I soon fished the spare key out of the planter and headed for the door.

I grimaced at the thought of coming home to Tom in this state. He was going to be pissed. We were supposed to be getting married in three months and here I was, still acting like a juvenile. He usually didn’t say anything, but I could see it bleeding out between the seams every time I came home wasted. Still, I was thankful he was patient with my self-sabotaging actions. Contrary to my actions, I truly can’t wait to start my life with him.

Closing the door with a quiet click behind me, I tiptoed across the living room carpet and clumsily dropped my peep toe kitten heels. I stumbled into the bathroom and stepped out of my alcohol and smoke laden red dress and lingerie. The piping hot shower was perfection and I sighed in relief as I washed away the filth from the night and the public restroom. I scrubbed in the heat until my skin was a brilliant pink and fought off the exhaustion that was taking hold. I still felt the alcohol seeping through my veins but the nausea had subsided a bit.

I wrapped myself in a soft beige towel and opened the door, letting the humidity escape like a warm breath. As quietly as possible in this state, I slinked across the bedroom floor. I pulled the closet door closed to a crack behind me before turning on the light to illuminate the small space. I wasted no time pulling a green silk negligee off the hanger and slid it on. I kicked the towel into the corner near the hamper and turned to the door.

With a sigh of tiredness, I shut of the light and slid into bed with Tom. I must have been quiet enough, because Tom barely even stirred. He just slid his arms around me and I rested snugly against his sleeping form. I felt the even rhythm of his heartbeat against me and the steadiness of his breath on my neck. I thanked my lucky stars that I was finally home as fatigue overcame me and I drifted off to sleep.

**

I woke to the sound of the music thrumming in my head like ping pong balls rattling around. My head was throbbing so badly, that it took me a minute to realize it was my alarm clock. Crap, my head hurt excruciatingly. I fumbled on the nightstand for my phone and pressed every button until the music stopped and the pinging subsided.

I had just about drifted off again when the damn thing started up again. It must not be the alarm. Maybe it was a call. I opened one eye and pushed the talk button before placing the phone to my ear. I let out a muffled “Hello” and waited.

“Good morning Cora,” Tom said, his voice smooth as honey.

I just now realized that he was no longer next to me and I bolted up in concern.

“Shit, what time is it?” I asked him.

“Around eleven, I figured I would give you a wakeup call since you were out so late,” he said pointedly.

So he had noticed. I winced and replied, “I am so sorry. Time just got away from us. I tried not to wake you.”

“You didn’t. I just didn’t want you to be late today. We have to do the cake tastings today and meet with the florist. If you are dragging me to these things Cora, then I want you on time, especially since we have to spend the day with our mothers.”

I had completely forgotten and I tried not to let it show in my voice.

“Thanks for the call Tom. I will be there in thirty-minutes. Primrose for lunch, I haven’t forgotten. I love you.”

“I love you too. See you soon,” he said before the line clicked off and I was alone with my pounding head.

I sluggishly ate the remainder of the aspirin bottle and chased it down with three cups of coffee just to gain some sort of a reaction in my brain activity. Only fifteen minutes to get ready and judging by the mirrors response to me, it was going to be a rough day. I looked like hell and my blue eyes were dull and lifeless. I quickly tossed my flat blond hair in a bun to hide the lack of shine this morning.

Then I doused myself in perfume and threw on a tie dyed tee with a long white cotton skirt. I didn’t have any time to shave and would have to make do. Sliding on my pheasant sandals, I was out the door and hailing a cab in ten minutes flat.

I watched out the window as the cobblestone road jostled me. The brilliance of a sunny summer day settled across the town. Parishioners lined the sidewalks, perusing the rows of eclectic shops that made up old town St. Charles. Soon the old fashioned lantern streetlights lined my rear view. I didn’t even dare breathe until I was pulling up to Primrose with five minutes to spare.

Tom was there, already seated; punctual as usual. His brown hair was shining in the light of the patio, and his green eyes alight. His mother was sitting next to him already and they were engrossed in conversation. They looked so much alike, I smiled to myself. Beverly had her dyed brown hair down and strait. Her emerald green dress was perfectly suited and matched her sparkling eyes.

I saw my mother just outside the entrance. She looked stunning in a light blue cotton dress, a white sweater wrapped around her shoulders. Her hair was up today in a French braid and her soft blue eyes reached mine as she noticed me.

“Mom, how are you?” I said as I gave her a big hug.

“Oh just lovely dear,” she replied. Then she looked at me more closely and raised an eyebrow.

“Are you ok? You look a little under the weather today. You’re not getting sick are you?”

“I’m fine mom, just a little off today,” I said, not wanting to tell her that I was really out getting drunk with Nessa last night.

Nessa, shit I forgot about her. She was supposed to be here today. I can’t believe I forgot to call her. What the hell was wrong with me lately?

“Go on in, Tom and his mom are both already here, I just need to give Nessa a call,” I told her.

“Ok dear, but don’t be too long,” she said and then headed into the restaurant.

I shot Nessa a quick text.

Where are you, it is wedding preparations day. We are at Primrose already.

It only took her a second to respond, which was a good sign.

I am two minutes away, go on in.

Relieved, I turned and entered the restaurant. Yellow flowers bloomed on each of the tables and the sun shone brightly into the restaurant. I slowed as I approached our table. Tom’s eyes lit up when he saw me. He stood to give me a sweet kiss and pulled my chair out for me. I loved how kind he was. He has a truly genuine heart and I felt lucky to have him.

“Good afternoon sweetheart. We were just ordering appetizers,” he said sitting beside me.

The thought of food just made me cringe but I tried not to let it show. “Hi, mom and Beverly, it’s always a pleasure.”

“Oh dear, you aren’t looking so well today. Are you feeling okay?” Beverly asked.

“I am just getting a cold or something, nothing to worry about,” I assured her.

Just then, Nessa strolled up and sat in the seat next to me, saving me from the concerned motherly talk I was about to become engaged in. “Morning Cora, Tom,” she said turning to him in a polite nod. “It’s a pleasure to see you Mrs. Fletcher and you too Frannie.”

“Nessa, I trust you and Cora are keeping out of trouble these days,” my mom said in her stern motherly voice.

“Yes mam, we are perfect angels as of late,” she said, giving a slight gesture of respect.

All I could concentrate on was the pounding in my head that had still not subsided. I felt pallid and pasty. My stomach swirled and I felt a wave of nausea. I swayed slightly, unable to stop myself.

“Cora, I have to use the ladies room, can you join me?” Nessa asked, seeing my need to silently recover for a few minutes.

“Sure, excuse us, we will be right back,” I said standing to follow Nessa off the patio and into the restaurant.

As soon as we entered the restaurant, Nessa guided me through the rows of tables toward the restroom. She took one look at me and then shut the door behind us.

“Cora, what is wrong with you? You didn’t drink enough to look like this. A hangover is one thing, but honey you look sick.”

“I just feel awful. My head is throbbing and I am nauseated. I am exhausted and dreading today,” I admitted.

“Then cancel. They will understand, trust me. You look like death warmed over. It won’t be a tough sell.”

“Beverly will be cross with me for wasting an otherwise productive day for her to plan my wedding and I can’t handle her nagging. Maybe I should just suffer through,” I told her.

“Ugh, just a day alone with the soon to be monster in law is enough to make anyone sick. She has gone crazy planning this wedding and it doesn’t even feel like yours anymore.”

“I know, but she will be family and I want to keep her happy. I love Tom so I need her approval. Let’s just go on back, I will be fine,” I replied.

“Are you sure?”

“I think so. Besides, I don’t want Tom to think it was because we were out last night. I don’t want to fight with him, I am too drained today to handle it,” I said.

“Alright, if you say so,” Nessa replied unconvincingly.

She led me back through the restaurant and out onto the patio. Just before we reached the table, my vision began to fade. Tiny pin pricks of black filled my sights until they had completely taken hold. I crumpled, losing consciousness.

When I came to, I found that I was sitting on the concrete. Everyone was peering around me, concern written all over their faces. Nessa was holding me up and Tom was brushing my sweat laden face with a gentle caress.

“Are you okay?” Tom asked.

“I am just getting sick I guess,” I told them.

“Let’s get you home. We can reschedule. You look awful and you passed out,” Tom said.

“I agree. Let Tom take you home and I will call you later honey,” Mom said with a weak smile.

“Okay, I guess that would be best. I really don’t feel that great. Maybe I can sleep it off,” I admitted, letting Tom help me to my feet.

He hailed a cab and gently slid me in before closing the door behind us. When we were alone finally, I sank into him. He smelled of pine and cinnamon and I nuzzled closer. He didn’t question me or give me a hard time. Instead, he just held me in a comforting embrace. I was thankful since my head was throbbing so loudly that I probably couldn’t hear him through the sound of the internal pounding.

When we reached our apartment, Tom tipped the cab driver and gently slid me out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He wrapped his arms around me and guided me up the stairs and into our building. Just inside the door, I swayed on my feet and Tom steadied me.

“Maybe you should take a shower, it might make you feel better,” he suggested.

“Mm… that is a good idea. I think I will,” I said already making my way towards the bathroom.

I showered, reveling in the penetrating heat. I was trying to ignore the pounding in my head that felt like the beating of bongo drums in full force. I was relieved to finally be able to shave. When the water cooled to icy droplets, I reluctantly shut the shower off and patted dry with a soft towel.

I slid on a cream silk slip and headed out of the closet to find Tom. I didn’t get very far though and began to sway once more. I was still incredibly sluggish so I decided to just crawl into bed.

A few minutes later, Tom was by my side. “I thought you might want some aspirin and a glass of water.”

“Thanks. My head is still pounding,” I said as I swallowed the aspirin and chased it with the water.

“Could you do me a favor?” I asked. He looked so strong and I craved the feel of him. His kindness only made me love him more than I already did and I gave him a pleading smile.

“Anything for you, Cora, what is it?”

“Would you lay with me for a while? I don’t really want to be alone.”

“Of course,” he said. He undressed down to his plaid boxers and crawled into bed.

Then the warmth of his body spread throughout me. He held me close and I reveled in the feel of him wrapped around me. I was lucky to have Tom. That was the last thought I had before I fell asleep and my nightmares started.

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A Little Bit of History: Pete Smith and His “Specialties”

One of my favorite things to do on occasion is watch historic documentaries.  Not documentaries about history so much as ones that were filmed years and years ago.  (Like, say, those old science films you used to watch in school… or some of us did.)  

Imagine my delight when I discovered Pete Smith.  A filmmaker, Smith’s heyday was between 1931-1955 when he made a bunch of short films for MGM.  These were originally intended as fillers between movies but became so popular that moviegoers would soon come to see bad films just to get a look at what Pete was doing.

So check out a few of these movies.  Goofy but fun, nonetheless.

 

 

Romance Excerpt: A Chance of Fate

For fun today, we’ve got an excerpt from the new romance novel, A Chance of Fate, by Emleigh Walsh.  Read on to find out more about the book and see where you can pick up a copy!

About the Book:  

HE’S TERRIFIED

Chance McGregor is known as one of the toughest werewolves around. As the Dominion Creek Pack Guardian it’s his job to protect the pack and its laws. Even if that requires him to find his true mate or mate with someone of the council’s choosing. With the Mating Ceremony fast approaching – and Chance a very unwilling participant – he has more on his mind than pack safety. It’s enough to make even the baddest werewolf whine like a puppy.

SHE’S IN CONTROL

Stephanie Taylor is finally making her way in the world. She’s out of a bad marriage, starting a business with her best friend in a great new town, and in control of her stable – if not sometimes boring – life. She can handle boring and she doesn’t need a man to tell her what’s best for her anymore.

WHAT’S A WOLF TO DO?

When Chance runs into Stephanie on the street, he realizes that he found his woman. The problem is she’s a human. Not a problem for him though. Now all he has to do is convince her that they are meant to be together forever; talk the ever-meddling pack council into allowing the mating; and protect his pack from a group of rogue wolves wreaking havoc across the state. With their hearts, and lives, on the line Chance and Stephanie will do the only thing they can…

TAKE A CHANCE ON FATE

From the Novel:

He made it across to the brick building housing a group of local businesses.  He put his forehead on the wall and waited for her to pass. He felt her walk cautiously by; he felt her eyes on him the whole way.  He felt her turn the corner and go up the cross street.  Eventually, after he could no longer feel her near, he gathered his control and turned around to stare where she was.

“So what the hell was that all about?” Eric bit out at him.  “You almost lost total control of your wolf.  You NEVER lose control!”

He could hear the fear in Eric’s voice as well.  Truth be told, he was pretty frightened when he thought about what could have happened.

“It’s her,” he said, with awe, still staring at the spot he’d last seen her.

“Who?!”

“My mate.  My true mate.”

Purchase the book at Amazon in Kindle or paperback format.  Also available for Nook.

Three Things I Like #1: Beats Antique, Paleofuture, and Off the Grid

Don’t get me wrong.  I love posting stuff about the writing community but once in a while, it strikes me that it would be fun to just post about things I like in a non-review or informal format.  And so I’m going to start sharing with all of you three things I like once a week.  These aren’t meant to be incredible works of blogging art–just stuff that I think is interesting and that some of you might like as well.

#1 : Beats Antique

I know I’ve talked about this band before but I love them.  I’d see them in concert if I could actually ever seem to afford the tickets when they’re around.  I wish I could use their music in my book trailers!

Beats Antique is a band with a strong Middle Eastern influence.  The first song that I heard of theirs was “Egyptic” and it hit me at exactly the right moment.  I’d been struggling with a scene set in the Anjduri Empire and something about that song jogged my block loose and I started writing again, hit the next song on YouTube and kept going.  The only music that I listened to when writing The Jealousy Glass was theirs.  (Fortunately, for my family, they have a lot of albums.)  Likely, I’ll listen to them again through The Oracle Bones and I’m not ashamed to admit that their song “Roustabout” is an inspiration for yet another project I’m working on.  Interesting, since this isn’t necessarily a genre of music that I listen to often (in spite of how I’ve just gushed about this particular band).

Anyways, here’s the song that started it all for me.  Go buy their albums.  At the very least, take advantage of one of their free downloads which you can often find at their website.

#2 – Paleofuture

This might be more accurately said to be that I like Smithsonian blogs, now that Paleofuture has become one of them.  Smithsonian blogs are generally among my favorites because I love history.  And I love it more when I can get it in bite-size pieces like a snack for my brain.

So why paleofuture?  Because I am fascinated with how past people viewed the future.  It says so much about a culture and how they dream when you glimpse these visions from previous eras.  My one quibble about this blog is that I wish it could go further.  I’d love to see more of other cultures and what their ideas were about what was coming.

History is often prophetic and one wonders what sort of science visions places like Japan or Africa have had about their own futures.

But I still LOVE it.  I mean, where else are you going to read about the “scientific mating” of the 1920s?

“Scientific Mating” on the cover of the April, 1924 issue of Science and Invention magazine. Courtesy of Paleofuture.

#3 – Off the Grid

I am neither an artist nor a photographer–never will be–and I’m always in awe of those who have those talents.  There’s the saying that “a picture is worth a thousand words” but I have to tell you that one of my pictures is worth about 5 words.  Maybe 10 if you’re lucky.  Because of that, I find good art and photography very precious.

Eric Valli’s Off the Grid is a photojournalistic essay I discovered surfing the internet.  His website shows a series of photographs of communities that have decided to remove themselves from modern technologies and engage with nature.  (I’m not going to show you a sample image here because I think this page is best viewed as a whole.)

This isn’t a choice that I would make but I can respect the desire.  There is something about running to the wilderness that you cannot capture in the cities, with the constant rush and noise.  Noise exists in the woods but it’s a different thing altogether.  I know that when I’m standing out on Hood Canal, sometimes it feels like the only time I really breathe.  The air is different there.  The woods to me are haven.  In part, I think that’s why I wouldn’t choose to leave the grid–I would lose that sense of reaching heaven every time I walk into a thick glade of trees.

That said, there is much to admire here and I think that all of us could stand to consume a little less electricity and a lot more sunshine.  On that note, I’m off to do so myself!

The FIRST Sneak Peek at the June Inner Artists Interview Tour.....A promotional blurb....

Reblogged from WERZOMBIES PRESS:

Here is an excerpt from the forthcoming interview with newcomer and author, Gwen Perkins of Tacoma, Washington. Release date for the full piece is June 1, the launch date of the Tour:

For the time being, Perkins balances her love of writing with a job as a curator at a history museum.

“I do everything from talk to 400 kids a day to curate exhibitions on themes ranging from Sasquatch to the Great Depression,” Perkins said.

Read more… 137 more words

Alan Dale is doing a remarkable interview project with hundreds of authors. Here's a sneak peek at his interview with yours truly.

Author Interview: Nicole Storey

This afternoon’s post brings us Nicole Storey who has written a YA story inspired by her family’s experiences with autism.  I am honored to have her on my blog speaking about both life and the novel that came from it, Grimsley Hollow – The Chosen One.  Please welcome Nicole!

Gwen: Thanks for joining us, Nicole!  Tell us a little bit about your story.

Nicole:  Grimsley Hollow – The Chosen One is book one of the Grimsley Hollow series.  The story’s main character is an autistic boy named Gage.  He has always been relatively happy and secure in his life, but craves adventure and friends.  He meets a young witch who invites him to her world – Grimsley Hollow – which is in danger.  Unknown to him, Gage’s autism gives him special powers and he is the only one who can save this magical world and the fairy-tale beings and creatures who call it home.  It is classified as juvenile fantasy and is for kids ages ten and up.

Gwen: Gage, the main character, is autistic.  This isn’t a common theme in speculative fiction—the only other novel I can think of offhand that covers this (and it’s definitely not YA) is The Speed of Dark by Elizabeth Moon.  What kind of response have you gotten from YA readers?

Nicole:  The response has been very positive.  The character, Gage, is actually my own son.  He was diagnosed with autism at the age of three.  I wanted to write a book that shows special-needs kids in a true light.  Many of the books I’ve read with autistic characters paint them as emotionless or as idiot savants.  My hope is when people read this book (especially kids) they realize that special-needs children are no different than they are.  I hope they see the similarities in the characters and themselves and will include these amazing kids in their lives.  I tried to portray in the book that everyone is different in some way or another – that we all have strengths and weaknesses.

Gwen:  Tell us something about Gage that we don’t learn in the story.  What’s something that he loves?  Something he hates?

Nicole:  The character in the book is a fairly true depiction of the real Gage.  Something that I have not disclosed in the story yet is that he obsesses over things.  It can be anything from a movie to an imagined health problem.  It is constant and ever-changing.  This month, he really hates storms – although they have never bothered him before.  He watches the Weather Channel constantly to see when it might rain.  Next month, it could be a video game he has to beat, or a favorite food he wants to eat over and over.  We’ve learned to roll with the punches by now!  LOL!

Gwen:  Some of the most wonderful things about your story are all the details and emotions that you slip in—how Gage has better senses or how his mother often wonders if his life would be easier if he was more disabled.   Did you draw from your own life to create a sense of this world?  What were some of the challenges you faced in telling this story?

Nicole:  Yes, everything (autism related) is absolutely true.  I think the most challenging part was how much to put into the book.  I didn’t want the reader to become bored or feel that autism was being pushed in their face, but I also wanted to add enough so that everyone would gain some knowledge of the disorder.

Gwen:  The Chosen One also has a number of fantastical elements in it, from witches to werewolves to pixies.  Do you have a favorite race among them and why?

Nicole:  I am a huge fan of Halloween and I love all the beings that represent the holiday.  I would have to say that witches are my favorites because of the magic that surrounds them.

Gwen:  What plans do you have for future books?  Can you share with us a taste of what might be coming up?

Nicole:  I have a new short story/novella that’s in the editing process right now.  It is a prequel to my first book and is titled Grimsley Hollow – Eve of the Beginning.  I also have another book in the series that is due out this fall titled Grimsley Hollow – The Search for Siren.  After that, I plan to write a stand-alone novel that’s unrelated to the series.  It is a YA Paranormal book.

Gwen:  What is the best place for readers to find out more about you and your work?

Nicole:  There are several places readers can connect with me and I love to chat with everyone!  Here are my links:

Twitter:  @Nicole_Storey

Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/nicolestoreyfans

Blog:  http://nicolestorey.wordpress.com/ (I mostly use my blog for book reviews and updates on my writing).

Website:  http://nicolestorey.weebly.com/

Publisher:  http://www.inknbeans.com/nickie-storey.html

My books are available in e-format and paperback.  They can be found on Smashwords, Amazon, Barnes and Noble, etc.  Here are the most commonly used links for my books:

Amazon:  http://amzn.to/GC9kO2

Smashwords:  http://bit.ly/tHfXB7

Barnes and Noble:  http://bit.ly/ru2RLp

Guest Post: Adding a Historical Time Period to a Paranormal Novel

When I saw that Belinda Vasquez Garcia had written a book about witchcraft and the Great Depression set in the American Southwest, I just HAD to talk to her.  As some of you may know, I just curated an exhibition on the 1930s so I’m a little addicted to the period.  Belinda’s novel, The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation, is full of fascinating concepts.  She’s here today to talk about historical connections but watch this blog to hear more about the book.

Adding a Historical Time Period to a Paranormal Novel

by Belinda Vasquez Garcia

Some Southwestern witches shape-shift using a piedra imán, those lucky enough to find the rare magnetic shape-shifting stone, whose powers go back to Roman times. In crafting my story, I thought that if a woman had such a stone, she would use it to remain young and beautiful. If one could remain forever young, then immortality would follow. So, in my books, a piedra imán acts as a fountain of youth. I therefore, needed to have my series start in an earlier time period so the lucky owner would stay young, while other witches around her age, festering with jealousy. For the first book, one of the time periods I chose was the Great Depression.

Madrid, New Mexico was once a company-owned, coal-mining town and it lost 37.5% of its population due to the Great Depression with 1/3 of the homes being emptied. The miners were forced to work just once or twice a week and struggled with even more debt which they owed to the company store. They ate mainly staples during this time period. One character, Marcelina, is given to quoting dichos [proverbs] and says of the Great Depression, “there is no shame in being poor but there is never a convenient time.”

Like most rich men, my fictional owner of the town and coal mine, Samuel Stuart, is not affected as much by hard times because he, also, owns businesses in Albuquerque, though some have closed due to the depression. However, his bank in Albuquerque, of which he is part owner, does fail and has to close its doors, even though the eight-story First National Bank is the biggest in Albuquerque. Here comes the Calvary! Lo and behold, the government and Roosevelt come to the rescue with the Glass-Steagall Act and loans money to banks all over the country, allowing the rich mine owner to reopen his bank. Hmm, sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

Well, the Glass-Steagall Act which saved the banks from entire ruin during the Great Depression bailed them out, so long as the banks agreed not to dabble in investment banking and underwrite securities.

Wait a minute! That’s what banks were doing that caused our current economic problems! I found it unnerving that during my research I discovered that the economic crisis our nation has been having the last few years is simply an echo of the past. It was rather daunting to see how history repeats itself.

About The Witch Narratives: Reincarnation:

Two young women, a witch and a Catholic, clash with the Penitentes, a fanatical, Catholic secret society who enforce their own punishment for sin. Salia, a third-generation witch and half-breed living on the fringes of society with a cruel mother and selfish grandmother, befriends Marcelina, a doubting Catholic haunted by a centuries-old witch, La Llorona, who rises from the muddy Rio Grande. While Marcelina is torn between Catholicism and witchcraft allure, Salia has no desire to join the Sisterhood of the Black Rose, the covens created by La Llorona.

About the Author:

Belinda grew up in Albuquerque. The daughter of a seasonal carpenter and housewife, her family never had much money. Growing up, the only books her family ever owned were the A and B encyclopedias, and Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary, which she used as a stool to sit on. Thus, did she absorb an arsenal of words.

She was seven years old when a neighbor loaned her Tom Sawyer. The novel mesmerized her, and she spent her summer days, sitting under a tree, reading the book from cover to cover ten times, before surrendering it. She then badgered her brother to walk her several miles to the library and several miles back, so she could check out other books of spell-binding fiction. She was skinny and often hungry, but nothing could keep her from that library walk, and the pile of books she would carry back home.

Her father deserted the family when Belinda was twelve, and her mother died when she was sixteen. Still, she earned a Bachelor’s degree from the University of New Mexico with emphasis on Applied Mathematics.

As a child, her family often spoke of witches. They particularly told tales of the legendary, centuries-old witch, La Llorona, who fascinated Belinda. Thus, her inspiration is taken from the true tales of witchcraft she heard as a child, from a strong Native American influence in her youth, and through research. Her fictional work reaches beyond regional geography to entice anyone who enjoys the world of mysticism, and the power of sorcery, but with spice. Her vision is to fashion colorful and realistic characters, and create compelling worlds that speak of sorcerers, witches, spiritual journeys, human compassion, individual frailties, love, hate, and the importance of family. One of her goals is to deeply touch the emotions of her readers.

Before embarking on writing full time, she worked as a Software Engineer and Web Developer for Sandia National Laboratory. In her spare time, she honed her craft of writing fiction.

Find Belinda at:

Author  Website

Facebook

Twitter

 

Guest Post: Defining the Book that Rejects Definition; A Genre Question – part 2

Yesterday, I posted the first of two guest posts by Sykosa author Justin Ordoñez. Today, we return to the discussion of what an author does with a book that rejects definition with a look at the YA genre. You can visit the first part of this post here.

Defining the Book that Rejects Definition; A Genre Question

Part Two

by Justin Ordoñez

Let’s take a look at YA.

People say they like YA because it’s short, it’s easy, it’s different, it’s fun, but it so happens the YA hot streak has coincided with a culture becoming ever more obsessed with youth, and a culture that has—in an unfair manner—began to rob children of the right to be young. To say for certain what is happening is hard while living it, but it seems there’s a tremendous downward pressure (by downward, I mean the older applying the pressure to the younger) for the young to become sexualized in an adult fashion, and with this downward pressure has come, in my opinion, an immense need to segment the youth into categories—newborns, toddlers, kids, tweens, teens, young adults—so this sexualization can be coped with and appear implementary. Market segmentation is not a new phenomena, nor it the implication that adults—who fall for logical fallacies like kids doing chores for candy—view most implementary change as change that must have been rationally thought out. If you pay attention, society doesn’t get mad when an entity crosses a line, but when it crosses too many lines. We get angry when the fallacy isn’t present—when it’s obvious we are objects without humanity. (An example of this would be selling thongs for seven year olds). When this happens, society’s response is to create more lines, which might at first seem okay. If there are more lines, then there are more lines to cross, thus less offenses should happen. Unfortunately, the problem is being viewed from the incorrect frame of reference. If one were to plot the downward pressure linearly (in a line), then review this line from a distance, it would still be as long as it has ever been, except the space between lines is shorter, and so it is much easier to cross one line, wait for society to become conditioned to it, then move toward the next—it is easier to create the appearance of implementary change, and to create a change that feels legitimate and true, and so one will find radical change becomes easier and ultimately meets less resistance.

In a most perverse fashion, and I use that word “perverse” on purpose, (recall what I said about pornography earlier), we have decided to enact this war on the youth, telling them they’re unfit and unready for the sex they’re clearly biologically ready to have, while we dress them up in our suppressed fantasies, and place ever more intricate rating levels and oversight committees (more lines) on the media they ingest and the schools they attend—somehow thinking this will make things less violent, less sexual, less adult. Well, when has that ever happened? We’re contributing to the madness. And like it or not, we’re contributing to it not because we disagree with it, but because we want it—we want that youth, we want them to be readily available (and exploitable) for our somewhat immature fantasies about magic, science fiction, and an untarnished and unattainable innocence (we ask the same thing from the female body, by the way).

The need might not appear sexual, and sexuality might not be its whole story, but sexuality is a major part of it, and regardless of whether or not we agree on its causes, it’s nonetheless de-humanizing.

In many ways, we need our kids to be a different kind of porn star.

And Sykosa is pushing back. She is saying, “Hey, you can’t have to your cake and eat it, too. If you want things this way, you gotta take everything that comes along with it.” To me, Sykosa’s voice is loud and inescapable, I must write her, and I do so in reckless disregard of my rational self-interest, and I do it even if it makes me a hypocrite based on how I’ve lived my life. (And, trust me, that’s happened quite a bit). But, I trust Sykosa will always lead me true, and I believe she represents a type of sexuality that isn’t interested in exploiting young women, and it’s one that has no sensitivity for if things are going the way they “should” go. This is not to say that Sykosa is beyond reproach or that she represents the “ideal woman.” The very suggestion of such repulses Sykosa, and for her, misses the point. What makes Sykosa “different” or “unique” or “interesting” is that, throughout her story, she remains a human being, and does not ever allow herself to become an object or a character or something we can manipulate so we (the readers) can better process or cope with the harshness of her world (which includes, among other things, her father’s need for her to be a happy, bouncy daughter, her mother’s occasional need for a best friend, her school’s need for her to become the moral “product” that its built a reputation for shaping a student into, Tom’s sexual expectations and pressures, the bullying she experiences from other girls, and from the narrator, who occasionally offers harsh, disconnected critique of Sykosa and her friends as if their physical attributes were all that mattered [Who is that person, anyway? In what other places do we encounter that voice?]). And this constant pull on Sykosa is important, as the downward pressure I described above is a type of objectification, and objectification is—in one way or another—a disease that has destroyed and will destroy many young women, and their fight against it (and they fight, don’t think they don’t fight—they lose, but it doesn’t mean they don’t fight) is the greatest battle most will ever face, so while Sykosa may be a whiny, bratty wallflower, afraid of confrontation and frozen by her emotions, in her exists a bravery that is sometimes too easily discarded. And in place of being commended for her battle, or instead of saying, “Look this girl needs our help and I’m going to support her,” her struggle and her story get referred to as, “pornographic,” or to a lesser (and far safer) stance, “different,” “unique,” “interesting,” or a new word (that never came up from any my test readers), “raw.”

As far as Sykosa is concerned, these adjectives may sound different, but they’re all derived from the same place, by the same premises and engine. For while her story may represent any of these words—to use one of them—the “rawness” experienced by the reader should correlate to the level of “acceptance” the reader has shown to the notion that women are objectified in order to justify all sorts of immoral and unconscionable actions. If you are sensitive to it and aware of it, Sykosa will feel like a book that simply recounts what you’re witnessing daily. You may even view Sykosa as a hero, and you’ll find yourself rooting for her, and you’ll begin to feel there are deep moral implications at play in this story, that Sykosa is speaking to something within all of us, and that you need her to win—you can’t see her lose like you’ve seen so many lose before. Conversely, if you’ve become apathetic and “conditioned” to it, and your way of coping with this violence is surrender, which constitutes self-objectification—not solely as a sexual object, but the objectification of motherhood, of being a “professional,” of any pursuit in which women trade humanity for legitimacy—then Sykosa might feel like an all-out, never-ending, needlessly cruel assault on your senses, especially in regards to the levels of sex in the book.

Wow!

Another segue that examines the genre critique of Sykosa.

“There’s too much sex! Don’t these characters think of anything else?”

Wait… Is that actually true?

Before we accept this premise, let’s explore the idea that the word “sex” has been misappropriated. In using “sex” as a blanket term to describe Sykosa’s thoughts, one is really saying nothing more insightful about her than if I proclaimed, “I, Justin Ordoñez, think about sports a lot,” which is true, I do, but “sports” is an encompassing term. There’re professional, collegiate, high school, and youth sports, sports I play with my friends, the softball league I did with coworkers, there’s occasional betting, family pride and tradition, fantasy sports, nationalist sports like the Olympics, sports metaphors like the 1981 US Olympic hockey team and America’s investment in the Cold War, philosophical notions like the idea of “team,” sacrificing for the betterment of the whole, delayed gratification for a championship. Sports for use as social grease—starting a conversation at a party, commenting on the paper someone’s reading on the bus, mentioning something to a woman who’s wearing a jersey of the team I root for. Sporting events on the TV and radio, TV and radio shows about sporting events, movies about sports, books about sports—it goes on and on. The same principal holds true for Sykosa. Sykosa is, of course, interested in her own sexuality, but she is also interested in the sexuality of Tom, her friends, and of the grown-ups around her. In a grander way, Sykosa’s interested in the politics that form and develop relationships. In this, very few of Sykosa’s sexual thoughts are pleasure-seeking. She believes the people around her are good, and she wants to understand them better, and learn their true motivations. She does this because she is curious, yes, but also because during her sophomore year, her entire identity and conception of the world was ended in one instant, and in the aftermath, all of the systems, authorities and individuals she was told she could trust, since she was a little girl, failed her massively, and did so without so much as an expression of regret.

The many variations of this theme this can be endlessly unpacked. Today, I chose to use if Sykosa was YA, and I used the example of pornography as possibly being a reason why she is not—but that is not to imply that these arguments are exclusive, or that they can be critiqued solely in the context I presented them. I had to limit my premises as this is a blog post, and attempting to answer these questions in such a forum can lead to a sloppy presentation if one isn’t strict with his/her scope. This simply isn’t the setting for such, whereas the novel, one like Sykosa, where characters can live, breathe, and play out these scenarios, suits it perfectly. Today, all I can hope to provide is some guidance as to Sykosa’s motivations, then try to show you why those motivations lead her to the genre and marketing she ended up in, which is where it was felt she was most likely to reach women who might agree with her, or be interested in the things she has to say.

So is Sykosa YA?

I don’t know. I don’t really think she is a genre. But, I know she isn’t pornography. And I know that can’t be a reason for not including her in YA fiction. And it can’t be a reason for prohibiting her from young women.

I’ll end on an example, if not because it’s a poetic ending, but because it sort of brings all the elements of this argument together. Imagine your Sykosa, and if you can’t do that, imagine you’re a sixteen year old girl. You have a crush on a boy who seems like a nice guy, but unbeknownst to you, he watches pornography several days per week, and has, in a manner you can’t even really quantify in your brain, witnessed five hundred women engaging in anal sex, which is (I believe) the most filmed and most popular pornography in America today. His consistent viewing has led him to slowly condition himself to believe, at some point, he is going to have anal sex with you. Is that not pertinent information for you? Certainly the boy should be forthcoming, but he’s been taught that being honest about his sexuality will injure you, so he’s not going to do it, but even if he did, would that forgive society from not having art and expression for you to engage about it? And by not being open and sharing this information with you, thus disabling you from properly understanding your environment and leaving you at a disadvantage to your peers, is anyone offering to take responsibility for the consequences you’ll one day face in regards to this? Or are they content to stand on the sidelines when all your ignorance becomes so starkly visible to you and you are left with little else to do but blame yourself? Or even better, how do you protest this in society, how do you try to effect change, when you’re not allowed to speak or know of it? How do you assume ownership of your soul and your sexuality without it?

I feel that most young women, if approached, would say they want this information for themselves, regardless of its appropriateness, and it might be more strongly worded than “want.” They might be like Sykosa. They might suggest they’re entitled to it. In addition, like Sykosa, they might express suspicion of anyone who would conspire, actively or passively, to deny them it. After all, she’ll argue, what good and moral person would want me to, one day in the near future after sleeping with, falling in love with and committing to my boyfriend, stumble upon his massive collection of pornography while using his computer to check my email? What kind of person would want me to suffer the anger and feelings of betrayal of that moment by myself? Or to stare at my boyfriend’s face that looks like, “I didn’t know this would be so upsetting to you”? Certainly not her mom, certainly not her dad, certainly not her teachers, not the religious authority she has subscribed to since birth—no, not those people, that kind of stuff is reserved for prostitutes, drug dealers, murderers, or faceless white men in generic board rooms, but they are not the people she trusts, not the people whom she holds dear, not the people who love her.

At one time, Sykosa would’ve agreed.

About the author: Sykosa is Justin Ordoñez’s life’s work. He hopes to one day settle down with a nerdy, somewhat introverted woman and own 1 to 4 dogs. Visit Justin on his website, Twitter, Facebook, or GoodReads.

Guest Post: Defining the Book that Rejects Definition; A Genre Question – part 1

Some of you may recall that, back in April, A Few Words posted an excerpt from a new YA novel called Sykosa by Justin Ordoñez. I received a lot of feedback on that post, especially on the concept of writing YA for 18+. I went back to Justin and asked him to consider writing more for us on genre. He graciously accepted and so we have two fascinating posts this weekend from an “industry outsider” and his take on why he chose the path that he did. I highly encourage you to come back for the rest of the conversation tomorrow.

Defining the Book that Rejects Definition; A Genre Question.

Part One

by Justin Ordoñez

Before we ask the question of, “Is Sykosa YA (Young Adult)?” I have a disclosure. I’m an industry outsider and I don’t know the lingo, the demographics, or what’s “hot” in the market, and until a few years ago, I had no idea what YA was, or that it sold well, and had no use for the term. I was first introduced to the term by YA author Mindi Scott. (Author of Freefall, and due in the fall, Live Through This—both fantastic novels). By chance, Mindi and I worked at the same company, and during one of our quarterly company-wide meetings, Mindi was honored for something—probably being awesome—and her manager said, “Mindi Scott is a writer and she was recently signed by Pulse, an imprint of Simon and Schuster.” It was maybe 2008 or 2009, so I was still toiling away on Sykosa, and I was already resigned to wasting my entire 20s on an unpublishable novel that would inspire every literary agent alive to say, “Yeah, I read it overnight. I was totally sucked in. What? No, sorry, I can’t represent Sykosa.”

(That’s an entirely different blog post, so I’ll stay on point…)

Anyhow, I decided to write Mindi an email and introduce myself. Over time, I came to learn she was an ambitious and serious writer, and what interested me most is that she had gone the more traditional route—attending school to help her hone her craft and working the social networking angle. It took her 5 years, but she finally got a book deal. (This is nothing I look down on, btw. In fact, I admire it, and often wonder why I can’t ever manage to do the same). Eventually, I told her about Sykosa, and her first reaction was, “Is it YA?” After confessing that I had no idea what she was talking about, I offered to let her read the novel, and although she was busy with Freefall, she said she’d read a few chapters. Upon finishing, she told me without doubt, “This is literary fiction. You’re not YA.” I asked her if she was sure about that, and then what happened is what happens to everyone who reads Sykosa; all of sudden you get this feeling in your stomach like, “Actually, no, I’m not sure… It’s just… Your novel is so…”

Finish the sentence however you like.

It’s “different.” It’s “unique.” It’s “interesting.”

Mindi’s struggle is easy to understand after you read Sykosa. And it came to be a struggle I frequently contemplated as I approached the release date. Sykosa seems tailor-made to YA: The premise for my book is YA, the characters are YA, the majority of the stuff they deal with is YA, but my book becomes for grown-ups because we’re used to categorizing certain subjects, like sex, before we examine context, and the fact that said sex exists, no matter its context, means it is inappropriate. And I don’t mean that in an egocentric, I’m-so-special way. Recently, the documentary Bully fought—and lost, then won, and lost, then won—its battle to have the film rated R instead of NC-17, and then to have the film rated PG-13 instead of R, under the premise of, “Look, kids are doing this stuff, so it can’t be NC-17 if its normalized behavior in society, and your attempt to restrict this content is not done to protect children, but to force a moral hypocrisy on the masses.” To this I agree with the creators, and this battle and many others have shown the hypocrisy of the MPAA, and the devastating effect it’s had on modern movies and their audiences.

(It should be noted, the victory secured by Bully is unique. This rating change is the exception to the rule, but in no way disproves the rule itself.)

There are many ways this relates to Sykosa, but I suppose I’ll choose the example that comes up most frequently. From some of my Amazon and Goodreads reviews, to emails I’ve received from readers, to my Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award reviewer—all of them, at some point, call Sykosa “pornography.” As I somewhat anticipated this response, I purposely added graphic conversations about pornography in Sykosa. For one, by highlighting in no uncertain terms what pornography is, it would hopefully show the reader how wrong it is to call Sykosa such, and it’s wrong if not because it isn’t pornography, then because it—by extension—accuses Sykosa, the woman, of being a “porn star.” (In short, it’s meant to show that by calling Sykosa pornography, one is objectifying Sykosa, the woman, and committing violence against her). Two, I added the conversation because, in our modern world, kids are exposed to pornography—usually online at their own or a friend’s home—at young ages, and you can approach this from any angle you want, from any research perspective you choose, and you’ll reach the same conclusion: (True) pornography in America, since the mid-1990s, has become increasingly graphic, perverted, violent and successful. Whether it is the hardcore pornography shot in the Valley, or it’s your daughter (“your daughter” being a fictional sentiment—just pretend) watching dolled-up fifteen year olds on the Disney Channel, de-humanizing women has, by far and away, become the predominate form of sexual expression in America.

(And I say this without excluding myself. Sadly, often we understand what we do because we are so guilty of it, not vise versa.)

What is the point?

The point is that, in America, young women—more than any age group of women—are in a constant war for both the ownership of their sexuality and their soul, and they are unfortunately the least equipped to defend themselves. While I suppose I can sympathize with the conventional attitude, if only because it is conventional, that says, “Sykosa has graphic sex in it, so it’s pornography and a young woman can’t read this until she is over 18,” I would also suggest a deeper examination of what pornography is, and what constitutes it. For while one might negatively label art like Sykosa, which gives Sykosa the freedom and the vocabulary to express herself how she chooses, this person never seems as passionate about something like the PG-13 movie Transformers II, and the now infamous shot of Megan Fox needlessly bent over a motorcycle with her ass in the air, which purposely mimicked the mega-popular style of pornography known as POV (Point of View). To all the teenage boys and girls in the movie theater, the message was clear: Women are porn stars. They don’t think, they don’t feel—they have sex, and that’s all. So when a person says a woman under 18 can’t read Sykosa, the implication is that she can’t read it because we need to protect young women, which (at least for me) begs the question: Is that person really protecting her, or is this young woman already where that person wished she wasn’t, and that person doesn’t want to admit it? I don’t believe there’s anything in Sykosa a young woman doesn’t already know. Sure, maybe she isn’t cogitating it perfectly, or maybe she lacks the vocabulary to fully conceive it, or her experiences have manifested in premises that’re not fully translatable to Sykosa’s—all of these things may be true, yet none of them answer the question of why, it appears, an omnipotent intellect, which is apparently obtained at 18, is the standard for a young woman’s admittance.

In fact, follow these thoughts through to their conclusion and it actually feels cruel to force young women to constantly ingest stuff akin to Transformers II—on tv, billboards, video games, the internet, and at sporting events—and then deny them any language or art to process or cope with it because allowing so feels—incorrectly—like an allowance of pornography itself, and so it’s “too adult.”

That answered, let’s look at the genres themselves.

Is Sykosa, like Mindi said, literary fiction? For some aspects of the book, I agree. For others, I don’t. (It should be noted, Mindi told me recently that she doesn’t think Sykosa is literary fiction because of the sex, it’s because of the writing style—fair point, though no one else has said that). The most important thing to consider when labeling Sykosa genre-wise is that Sykosa is in the midst of a rebellion against all formations of what society deems as “moral” and “good.” Sykosa no longer has faith in convention, nor does she believe that a person’s motives represent what is initially presented, so to put her in “literary fiction,” especially considering the state of modern literature, seems an awkward and uncomfortable fit. Consider it this way: Imagine Sykosa just walked into the school cafeteria. To her left is Holden Caulfield. To her right is Edward Cullen. Does Sykosa sit by Holden or does she look anxiously over her shoulder at Edward and try to stop herself from naming their babies? Would Sykosa associate the values of the literary world as being her own? Probably not. Sykosa feels literature is condescending to women and that it has often been an impediment to genuine female expression. (Not to say that Twilight is empowering to women, but Sykosa thinks Robert Patterson is hot, and she wanted to mention him…) To extend the cafeteria metaphor, does Sykosa fit even amongst the best written of literature’s female characters? No, she doesn’t. In all of Sykosa’s reading, the closest she’s come to really seeing shades of herself in a character is possibly Eliza Wharton, from The Coquette, and how Eliza’s serenely dissected, and how much Sykosa relates to the incentives Eliza receives to disempower herself willfully. That said, Eliza’s world is not Sykosa’s. Because of her friendship to Niko, Sykosa’s parents have enrolled her in the schools Niko attends, and Niko is part of elite America, and the kids in elite America are educated. While Sykosa may not spend the novel gloating about her big brains, if she needed to, she could wipe the floor with just about anybody intellectually, and is probably somewhere in the top 4% of students nationally. This type of intellectual empowerment has given Sykosa an entitled attitude to information, in that she believes she has a right to it. By extension, and this link is often ignored in our culture, the establishment of Sykosa’s intellectual entitlement has lead to her sexual entitlement, and she pursues sexual pleasure, either through masturbation or with Tom, when and if she desires and chooses to do so.

(I know that people’s dream world is a woman where these two aspects are separated, but it’s not possible. Independent women are sexual women—each feeds the other and makes them strong).

For Sykosa, there’s something irreverent about YA fiction that’s simultaneously conforming and punk, or it’s punk that’s “safe,” and Sykosa vibes with that mix, and, if she were a teenager in 2012, she’d get lost in YA Fiction like she gets lost in Friends. Also, Sykosa notes, YA fiction is where all the women are. Sykosa would like to be Hermonine Granger or Katniss Everdeen. She would like to be able to save the world for her friends or fight to the death protecting her family—she sees these things as noble aspirations. The problem? She doesn’t know how, and she’s struggling with figuring it out, and she’s failing sometimes…okay, maybe most times, but she’s trying, she is, and she’d be really, really proud of herself if she one day accomplished it, but she is also suspicious—suspicious that the dice are loaded, that the cards have been stacked against her, and that just when she is on the cusp of that great independence, someone will yank the carpet out from under her and say, “Sorry, we’d love to have you, but you gave your boyfriend a hand job, and we don’t allow that here,” which is just another way of saying, “Bend over that motorcycle, Sykosa—show us your ass,” which is really just a way of saying, “You’re not being a woman correctly.”

Beyond Sykosa herself, the other major issue at play in a genre assignment is that, in my experience, no one knows what YA is. People have told me YA is for middle schoolers only (which having started to met its audience, I must say is preposterous). I’ve also been told it’s for high schoolers only. Someone even told me it’s for 14-21 year olds. I had a literary fiction agent hear me read the beginning of Sykosa at a writers conference and say, kind of bewildered, “I don’t know what it is you just read, but it’s what the market wants right now.” (He then declined to accept the manuscript). Apparently, on the Internet, there’s a blog who’s theme is “YA that’s more A than Y,” since so much YA appeals to people who are not young adults. I can’t make sense of the up or down of it. It’s impossible for me to. I’m not built that way. I’m built to see a phenomena and then figure out the difference between what people say is happening and what is happening.

Come back for part 2 of this post, including a discussion of the YA genre, tomorrow.

About the author: Sykosa is Justin Ordoñez’s life’s work. He hopes to one day settle down with a nerdy, somewhat introverted woman and own 1 to 4 dogs. Visit Justin on his website, Twitter, Facebook, or GoodReads.